The True Journal of Human Things
by DoceoPercepto
Summary: [sequel to Resurrection] When Ford thinks Bill Cipher is back, Wendy isn't inclined to believe him. Mabel knows better than both of them. ON HIATUS
1. Alone

Numerous mythical creatures possessed the ability to shape shift – much fewer were able to directly copy and assume a human shape.

The Shape-Shifter, of course, was one such creature, as the only shapes he can take are those he has already seen before.

Likewise, Kitsune can take the shape of any human. Kitsune fear dogs, and rarely reside in North American, let alone Oregon.

Some fae, although unable to physically transform, can produce 'second skins' – illusions that hover over their bodies and make them appear different or human. Fae are weak to iron.

Nagas, Shahapets, and werewolves, among others, can transform into humans, but none of these creatures could deliberately mimic the appearance of another human being. Furthermore, most of these creatures cannot be found in Oregon.

Ford knew his list was not exhaustive. But it did span his experience across fifty years, and he was almost certain, then, that it covered everything he would ever see in his lifetime.

Therefore, in theory, if he found an individual who was not weak to iron, who did not fear dogs, and who specifically assumed the shape of another human being, he ought to assume it was the Shape Shifter.

In theory.

But the Shape-Shifter had been trapped in the bunker for the past thirty years – if he was still alive at all.

The Shape Shifter also did not have yellow eyes.

"How could this be possible?" Ford asked to himself, more than the monster. The word echoed against empty concrete walls. Pieces of the demolished portal lay scattered in the corners of the room. Ford's boots made a low, hollow rhythm over the floor, like the slow heartbeat of a prey resigning itself to its own slaughter.

In Ford's hands was a thick leather tome, pages yellowing and corners fraying. One page screamed 'TRUST NO ONE!' while the other depicted the puzzle wheel that he, thirty years ago, dedicated far too much time to deciphering.

On the furthest wall, where the portal once stood, Ford had set up a vertical metal platform. The monster was bound to this platform by metal cuffs and chains over his small wrists, ankles, and throat. He quietly, slyly, watched as Ford paced shakily in front of him.

"Why are you doing this?" Ford demanded. "Why come back now, looking like that? Why does the devil's trap not work?"

Dipper Pines gazed back flatly.

Swerving, Ford resumed his frantic pacing, fingers combing through his frazzled hair. He needed to calm down. Bill appearing here as his nephew, it was rattling him – but the more important thing to keep in mind with Bill was to _stay. Calm._

Ford exhaled, and straightened, directing his gaze straight at 'Dipper.'

"You must want something from me. The rift? It's far out your reach, Bill, and I'll never let you have it!"

'Dipper' said nothing.

"What do you want!? My mind?" Ford stepped closer. "I won't make a deal with you, so give up now. This metal plate will protect me as long as I live."

No answer. But was that a smile, curling at the corner of his lips?

Fear reached to the very tips of Ford's fingers. Dread flowed through his veins in one dawning, horrible realization.

Bill Cipher didn't want anything. It made so much sense. Bill didn't want anything because he must already have it.

The demon was already in his mind. He'd slipped in, maybe recently, maybe a long time ago, and he was playing with the wires to his brain, compromising his rationality, setting 'fear' on the highest setting, devouring his composure, leaving him jittery and irrational and on the brink of breakdown – it was all Bill, Bill the entire time.

The journal fell from his hands.

Ford staggered to a halt, envisioning Bill's claws raking through his scalp, twisting into his brain, twirling blood vessels and nerves and the organic wires of his body.

Ford's knees struck the concrete floor, his mouth opened in a wordless gasp, though he had entirely forgotten how to breathe.

He might not even be in the basement. He might not even be in reality. There was no telling. He could be anywhere, anytime, anyone. Bill could make him his puppet, dancing to his will, flitting through reality. Bill could make him nothing.

Upon him fell visions of monsters and nightmare realities, of endless, ceaseless torture; centuries passing and the birth, life, and death of empires and then humanity and Things that came after.

Some old mantra flitted into his mind, _show no fear_ , and he remembered that once, in one reality, he hunted monsters, and that Bill betrayed him – Bill, no matter what reality, always it was ruled by Bill – and there was no stopping the terror of his might.

The world swam. His heart rumbled in his chest, quavering in time with a distant tempo.

Gravity unraveled and drifted past him in streams; textures leapt out to him in sharp, alien detail, dust specks like mountains under his fingertips, grass stroking like snakes spiraling about his ankles.

Then cold.

Cold cold cold. His throat closed, his muscles tensed, and he threw his head up through the surface of the water, drawing in a huge gasping breath.

He shook his head, hair soaked and sticking to his skin, and his legs began to kick.

The night sky stretched out about him; around all sides he heard the chirrup of cicadas, and… he was treading water.

He… what?

Ford blinked to clear his eyes.

He was in the Gravity Falls lake. In the middle of the night. Or morning. Four or five AM based on the look of the sky. The water was freezing cold and it made his clothes cling tight to his body.

Dazed, Ford paddled to the edge of the lake and pulled himself onto the bank. Wasn't he just with Bill? Wasn't he in the basement, in the afternoon?

Flopping onto his back, Ford stared up at the sky, his clothes chilly, sodden and sticking unpleasantly to his skin.

Bill. Bill had possessed him. That was the only explanation – how he went from talking to the demon in the basement to swimming in the middle of the lake at night.

Perhaps Bill had even possessed him before this, and he hadn't remembered, hadn't known.

He wasn't safe. He needed – he needed to make it clear to himself, later, if he forgot –

Ford lunged for journal number 3, which lay not too far, and he ignored all the water that dripped from his sleeve onto the page. He needed to write a reminder -

No pen. Hastily he patted down his clothing, but nothing, nothing to write with. There was only one choice.

He yanked a pocket knife from his jacket pocket and slit open his palm – he absolutely had to write this down, else he might forget again, and forgetting was dangerous.

Frantically, he began to write: "Possessed! – Can't trust yours-"

His body came apart, particles and dust whirling up in a dizzying maelstrom of motion. In a violent, nauseating lurch, he returned, mind and body, to the basement.

The journal was gone. A bandage was wrapped about his left palm, dotted just lightly with blood.

Ford's trembling eyes met with those of the monster charading as Dipper Pines.

Bill stared back, uncomprehending.

* * *

 **A/N:** _Confused? The next chapter is from Wendy's PoV, so a lot more will make sense then!_


	2. The Fractured House

A/N: For reference, this story takes place six years after Resurrection. Everything that happened between then and now will be explained in time. (:

Chapter 2

Hunting in Gravity Falls came with its own unique dangers and benefits. Most hunters, for example, couldn't claim to have witnessed the migratory patterns of Tresquals, or to have observed the court trials of fairies, or to be the first woman to compete in - and win - the quadrennial Manolympic Games, hosted by the Manotaurs.

To some extent, Wendy Corduroy adapted to all of the weirdness inherent with Gravity Falls. She learned to greet the Pengriyons in their own tongue, to trade fairly with the Gnomes, and to step lightly around the Crystal Bees' nests.

Then one day in early October 2018, something happened while she was out hunting that she had never seen before, and that she could not explain or justify.

The rivers ran with blood.

Thick coagulated blood, reeking of iron and rotten sweetness, flooded all the creeks, and streams, and lakes. Water nymphs fled, howling, from their abodes, their silky bodies dripping red stain.

Blood overflowed from the banks and soaked into the mud, forming charnel swamps all over the forest, and scab-like flakes formed amongst blades of grass, black and tough.

The earth, soured and soft, sunk beneath the feet of animals and humans.

This lasted for half an hour.

Then the blood washed away, the water ran clean. Still the stench remained, and woodland creatures remained wary and distant from the water sources.

This event, some dreadful omen, was something beyond Wendy's knowledge or experience…. But she knew just who to go to learn more.

* * *

The Mystery Shack was not the same place that it had been under Stanley's ownership. It wasn't even the Mystery Shack anymore.

After the summer of 2012, and Stan's subsequent jailing, Ford had taken over management. He'd promptly dismantled anything that had ever indicated it was a shop.

Since then, Ford subjected himself to hermitage, and rarely was seen in town. Wendy saw him wandering the woods sometimes, and she occasionally stopped by the Shack to make sure he was still doing important human things like eating and sleeping.

Still, the Mystery Shack had really fallen apart.

Weeds crawled up the wood porch, paint chipped off the walls, the awning seemed to sag in imitation of its owner.

Sighing, Wendy rang the doorbell again.

"Come on, Ford… Any day…"

Sure, maybe he wasn't home, but from past experiences, Wendy figured he was a lot more likely to be home and just ignoring the door, or possibly didn't even hear it at all.

Wendy banged on the door impatiently. "Ford? You better not be dead in there, old man!"

No response. Wendy rolled her eyes.

She tried the knob – locked. Great.

At least that meant he was home. He never locked the door if he was going out, because he didn't actually have the key anymore – according to him, he had fed it to one of the monsters in the lake as an experiment.

Wendy wasn't sure what the experiment was or why it needed Ford's house key, but hey, it was his property, he could do whatever he wanted.

"Sorry man," Wendy muttered to herself, "but someone's gotta make sure you're still kicking."

Taking a step back, she readied herself and – "Hyah!" – side kicked the door.

The rotten wood tore right at the lock and the door blasted open, bouncing off the wall.

Wendy figured that the safety of Ford Pines was more important than a little bit of trespassing and vandalism. He'd thank her later. Probably.

"Ford?" She peered into the room that was once the old Gift Shop. Empty.

For the most part, the shop had been converted to storage, and was piled with stuffed cardboard boxes gathering dust. Some trinkets remained on the shelves in reminder of the room's old purpose – a bobble head or two, some snow globes, shirts stuffed in the corner, the cash register broken on the floor, sun-bleached magazines hanging lamely off the rack in front of the window.

Wendy flicked a 2012 cover of the _Forever Teen_ magazine as she passed.

"Ford? Seriously could use your advice on something!" No rush or anything, just weird apocalyptic signs including but maybe not limited to blood polluting all water sources. No big deal.

The floorboards creaked hollowly underfoot. Still no answer.

She wandered into the living room. The TV, she found, was now missing from its usual place, and Ford had pushed all the remaining furniture up against the walls – seemingly to make room for the piles of papers that now littered the floor; various diagrams, codes, drawings.

Busy at work again, then. As usual.

The axolotl had long since died, but the tank was still filled with grimy water that looked more disgusting every time Wendy looked at it.

"Ford?" She called out again, trying to pretend she wasn't nervous. Sometimes he didn't answer, that was all. Often if he was in the basement, or –

Wait.

There was a small sound, a hoarse cough – Wendy turned with new purpose, and entered the kitchen.

Ah.

There he was.

Ford Pines. Scientist and supernatural expert, slumped at the kitchen table.

He wasn't moving much. His hair hung heavy over his face, and his hands lay limply over the table. Although his eyes were open, they seemed to be gazing at nothing in particular, with no particular emotion behind them. Just blankness.

She saw his shoulders rise and fall with a breath, and relief flooded her. Okay, so not dead. Not great, but not dead.

Her eyes drifted past him, to the general disarray and filth of the rest of the kitchen.

"Dude, c'mon. This is like, three weeks of dishes. You're going for world records here, man."

The stench hit her nostrils hard. Something seemed to be growing in one of the pans. "You're gonna need holy fire to clean this crap, Ford. The hell happened to your cupboards?" Said cupboards were sporting three long rake marks, as if some pissed off monster needed to vent its rage.

Wendy opened one and shuffled through the food assembled there. Some expired chili cans, a spilled bag of rice, a loaf that was more mold than bread… She snagged a mac and cheese container with an approaching expiration date.

"You gotta get your shit together," Wendy added, becoming a little worried at the fact Ford hadn't replied yet. Hopefully some food would get him talking.

She ripped off the cover and poured on the cheese. "Where's the microwave?"

At this point she noticed his lips moving, susurrating indiscernible words, and she tensed.

"Ford. Ford. _Ford_!"

Twitching sharply, Ford yanked his head up. His eyes met hers and for one foggy moment he didn't seem to recognize her. Then he smiled. "Wendy!"

"Jeez, Ford. Do you have to scare the crap outta everyone?"

"Yes, yes, just – my projects have kept me up at strange hours, and I'm a bit drowsy during the day."

Wendy shook her head. _Yeah, sure._ "Where's the microwave?"

Ford looked vacant for a moment, as if he couldn't quite remember ever owning something like a microwave. Then a spark of inspiration hit him. "For one of my experiments! I had to completely dismantle the microwave. You see, it was paramount that I use the waves supplied by –"

"Dude." Wendy tossed the mac and cheese into the trash. Ford had been doing so good. Apparently not anymore.

She sank into the chair opposite him, without an excuse to try to make him eat anything.

"I can assure you, these experiments were of the utmost importance. I have reason to believe that –"

"Do you know your axolotl tank is growing stuff?"

Ford frowned at her second interruption. "If you'd let me finish speaking, you'd know that the electromagnetic waves were helpful in studying the "stuff" growing in that tank. I have classified three new protozoa species that I believe have supernatural origin. The implications are tremendous – Gravity Falls weirdness functions on a microscopic – perhaps even quantum - scale! If I had the equipment…." Ford started patting his coat. "I could have sworn I had blueprints…" His eyes took on a lost look. "To – to examine their quarks, I was going to build… but the blueprints…" His hands, empty, settled shakily on the table and he sat there, looking quite old and quite lost. "I-I must have lost them. I benched the study for a while, you see…"

"Supernatural microorganisms. That's new," Wendy said, yanking a piece of gum from her pocket and sticking it in her mouth. "Are you wet?" she added, on account of the fact his overcoat was dripping onto the table.

"Ah, yes. I found myself in the Gravity Falls lake early this morning."

"How do you just – you know what, I probably don't want to know. Look, let's clean up this mess." Standing from the table, she clapped her hands together. "What do you say? Start with a flame thrower, and work our way to soap and water?"

"Excellent idea!" Ford hauled himself up and dug his hand into his coat. Wendy had two seconds of confusion before he brought out a huge metal cannon-looking apparatus.

"Whoa, whoa, is that an actual flame thrower? I was just kidding!"

"Of my own invention," replied Ford proudly. "You never know when you may need to face off against a Snoffelwagrout."

"Okay, whoa, don't know if we really need to go that far."

Ford frowned. "No?"

"Well now I'm kinda curious."

"The house is fire-proof," added Ford.

"Okay dude, not even gonna stop you." Wendy stepped safely behind Ford. The scientist adjusted his glasses slightly, settled the flamethrower neatly at his waist, and let the fire fly – and fly it did. A thick funnel of flame roared forth and blazed over the amassed piles of dishes and silverware.

With a little click, the machine turned off and the last licks of flame shivered into nothingness. Left in their place were the innocent dishes, seemingly untouched, with most of the mold and food and mildew fried away into ash. Well… and a really disgusting rotten stench lingered.

"Now _that_ is the way to get things done," Wendy marveled.

Grinning, Ford tucked away the flamethrower once more. "Thank you, Wendy."

"Ugh, now we're at the boring part… _washing dishes_."

"I have let it go for a bit…" Ford admitted, shuffling forward and beginning to clear a space in the sink.

"Soap?"

"Under the sink."

"Boosh, soap."

Ford set to washing, Wendy to drying and putting the dishes away.

She chewed her lip and debated the best moment to bring up the whole blood in water incident. On one hand, apocalyptic signs like that didn't seem like the kind of thing you put off mentioning. On the other hand, Ford wasn't as okay as he was trying to pretend, and she had a pretty bad hunch about why.

Maybe she could get him to admit more. "So when did ya last sleep?" she said, and tried to make it casual.

Ford's hands hesitated. Then, slowly, mechanically, he began to scrub again. "My studies have kept me up late."

"Is it Bill?"

Ford froze altogether. His tongue swiped over his bottom lip nervously. "Don't say his name."

Crap.

Crap. Crap. Crap.

This was exactly what she had been worried about.

When Ford met her eyes and she saw fear, she lost all resolve: the sensation of helplessness crippled her and she felt abruptly that she couldn't deal with this, not again.

But she blinked, she swallowed, and her words came out casual, "You think he's back?"

Because she knew. This had happened before, and it would probably happen again. Ford's paranoia of Bill Cipher sometimes surfaced into delusions and hallucinations. Ford went to very, very dark places whenever those feelings surfaced; as his sole confidante, only Wendy had a glimpse into just how dark they could get. As the frequency of these paranoid bouts increased, she was becoming increasingly concerned about keeping them a secret for Ford.

He needed a kind of help she couldn't offer. But it was complicated.

Ford elaborated carefully, "His motives are still a mystery to me. But I have reason to believe that he has infiltrated my defenses. The metal plate, Wendy. I had it installed to guard myself against him, but I was foolish to believe it could stop a being of his power."

"When did you last sleep?"

"There are things more important than sleep, Wendy. What matters is that I have him confined. His powers are limited. My investigations suggest he can possess me, but can't enter the mind of anything else. Whether this is a result of events six years ago, or something else entirely, I'm unsure. But this is an extraordinary opportunity to stop him once and for all."

Huh. That sounded different than his usual paranoid-induced narrative, where he ranted about how Bill was taking over the world and possessing people left and right. "Hold on, _confined_?"

He met her gaze steadily. "Would you like to see?"


	3. A Single Call

A/N: This is the first chapter that felt really natural to write, like I'm getting back into the swing of things. I hope it reflects in everyone's characterization. I think I've rushed a bit until now, and also a little in this chapter, but with luck, I'm beginning to settle into the flow of the story and I'll find a good pace and tone. (:

Chapter 3

Six long years had passed since her brother was whisked from her life forever; none were easier than the last. Since that summer, that terrible and wonderful summer, reality had begun encroaching onto her life, sometimes through subtle fissures and cracks, and sometimes through loud crackling bangs. Getting her driver's permit. Stan going to jail. Paying her phone bill. Ford dismantling the Mystery Shack.

Dipper.

As the days marched on, she began to linger more and more on images from her first summer in Gravity Falls. Candy and Grenda, monster-hunts with Dipper, her Grunkl-iest grunkle.

It was this atmosphere, this aura, that she most wanted to capture in a piece of art. All the emotion and images were there in her soul – but putting them to canvas and paint strokes? That's where it got harder.

A whole lot harder.

She wanted to give people a glimpse, a mere hint into the immersive world Gravity Falls had been – and maybe, privately, she wanted to pour out a trace of what the summer had been to her.

The idea in her head was a likeness of the beloved Mystery Shack, captured in a moment of time, six years ago, hazy in warm summer heat, with its sweet-smelling wood porch and the buzz of insects. She wanted something that could rise off the page and envelop the viewer.

But…. The piece of work she wanted to create sounded so massive, so immense compared to her abilities.

Mabel sighed.

It was her second year of higher education, at a local college in Portland so that her parents didn't have to pay room or board. She was working towards getting a Bachelor of Arts.

It… wasn't going well. At least not right now.

See, it was nearing midnight, and the night for her had really just begun. With paint-spattered clothes, tousled hair, and an empty 16 oz container of Mabel juice beside her, Mabel Pines was not doing well.

It was all her fault, of course.

She knew that her canvas painting for Creative Arts, worth no less than 40% of her grade, was going to be due October 19th. She knew this two months ago, when her teacher first announced it.

In fact, she even tried to prepare – really! She couldn't name the number of times she sat down in front of a blank canvas and stared at it as if she was some animal behaviorist trying to catalogue the smallest details.

But something about this assignment was just so much more intimidating – trying to capture this part of her childhood seemed more and more futile every time she sat in front of the canvas.

So, now here she was, with the assignment due in…. oh, about nine hours.

"Maybe I just need a little change of perspective," Mabel told herself, nodding. "A bit of a Mabely touch – I mean, I don't have to do the Mystery Shack! I could – paint a zoo! The thirds rule is totally overrated; so _what_ if I want to put a giant pink panda taking up the entire left side of the canvas?"

Unfortunately, Mabel had the sense to recognize what would earn her a failing grade and what wouldn't, and she doubted that flipping the bird to all traditional art rules was the way to a passing grade.

"All other cool artists do it, though," she muttered to herself.

Suddenly, the dulcet tones of an old but fondly recalled boy band broke in:

 _Girl you look so great,_

 _Girl you're the only one for me, ooh ohhh –_

"Huh?" Mabel fumbled for her phone – who would be calling at this time? Balancing several paintbrushes, she slapped the phone to her ear. "Reporting: Mabel Pines, sinking into a rainbow pool of failed dreams."

"Mabel?"

"Wendy?! It's been like, forever! I miss your face!"

"Dude, I have a pretty important question. Like, really really important."

"Aroo?"

" _Do_ _you know what Bill is doing right now?_

"Cipher?" Mabel said slowly, as if there was any doubt in the world about which Bill Wendy was talking.

"Yes."

Mabel lifted an eyebrow. Whoa. Typically Wendy didn't like talking about Bill, at all. The whole subject made her uncomfortable, and Mabel hadn't even mentioned him in months.

She scratched her head. "Uhhh, I mean, I don't really keep track of his schedule. Why?"

There was a long pause.

"Wendy? Why? Why are you asking?"

"Ford's got someone locked up in his basement and they've got a serious Dipper disguise going on."

Paint brushes flew, Mabel yelled, the canvas crashed, and she staggered to her feet, phone clutched tight to her ear with white knuckles "Dipper!? _Someone_?"

"Yeah dude, like, twelve-year-old Dipper. With yellow eyes. The kid is not happy to be here."

"Wh-what?" Mabel screeched.

"I don't know, man! He looks a whole helluva lot like Bill to me, though!"

"What – when – how-? Is he – How did this happen?"

"I don't know. Ford's manic, dude. I don't know what to do – I don't even know – he's downstairs right now, but this is some seriously messed up stuff. He's got this Dipper-Bill-whatever-he-is locked up in chains; it's sick, and not the good kind of sick."

"Th-the Shapeshifter," Mabel gasped, "He turned – remember? When we froze him, he was Dipper!"

"That's what I told Ford, but -" Wendy's voice dropped. "Look, Mabel, if it _is_ Bill-"

"It's not," Mabel rushed to say. "Whoever he is, he _isn't_ Bill."

"He's got yellow eyes!"

"It's not Bill! You called to ask me that, right? I'm telling you it's not!"

"Mabel, are you sure?"

"Yes! Put Ford on the phone!"

"All right all right. Hold on." Footsteps, the sound of the elevator.

Wendy's voice came over the phone again, this time distant as she held the receiver away from her mouth, "Ford! Mabel says he isn't Bill!"

Ford's voice, distant and frantic, "Bill's deception is very difficult to see through, but I-"

"Mabel wants to talk to you!"

"You shouldn't have called! This is a very delicate matter and these runes have to be written correctly. The fate of the universe could depend on it!"

Into the phone, Wendy said dryly, "he's doing Fate of the Universe stuff again."

"Ugh. Ford, c'mon! I'm your niece!"

"Mr. Pines," growled Wendy.

There was a scramble on the other side, the phone changed hands, and Ford pressed it to his ear. "Mabel, there is no need to worry. I have him secured in the basement and I'm in the process of arranging the sealing wards. Everything here is under control; there will be no mistakes."

"Wait whoa whoa whoa, what exactly are you doing?"

"You have to remember that this is _not_ Dipper, Mabel."

"Hey!" hollered another voice in the background – a voice so searingly familiar that Mabel nearly doubled over.

She hadn't heard that voice in six years.

"Mabel!" he yelled out again, "Mabel, you gotta save me! Ford's gone crazy! I'm innocent; I'm not Bill! I'm Dipper, I swear I'm Dipper, I – please help m-gk!"

"I-is he okay?" Mabel said frantically in the phone. "Let me talk to him!"

"Mabel –"

"Grunkle Stanford Pines, you let me talk to him!"

There was an exasperated sigh. Then, "One minute. One minute, Mabel."

Mabel didn't have time to get a single word in before, "you have to come to Gravity Falls, Mabel. I'm your brother; I'm Dipper –"

"On our seventh birthday," Mabel said, "Mom gave me a unicorn from that old TV show we used to watch all the time, but she bought me Rose Sparkle. I cried for like, two hours, and then you made mom go to the store and bring back my favorite favorite unicorn. What's the name of that unicorn?"

A stunned pause. Dipper's voice was tentative – _why did he have to sound so painfully familiar_. "I…. that was a while ago Mabel… I…"

Mabel's face hardened. "You don't know."

"It's – that was a while ago, Mabel – you can't expect me to remember something like that!"

"Don't even pretend," Mabel hissed. "You aren't my brother! Who are you!?"

"I-I'm Dipper-"

Ford returned to the phone, "I'm sorry you had to witness that, Mabel. Bill's tricks are cruel on even the most practiced mind. But everything is under control."

"That's not Bill!"

"Whatever you do, stay away from Gravity Falls," Ford said. "It isn't safe here any longer… if it ever was."

The line went dead.

Mabel stood in the center of her art room, chest heaving, clutching the phone in a sweaty palm.

Static.

Nothing.

"Grr!" Mabel ripped from the phone from her ear and redialed Wendy's number.

Straight to voicemail.

She dialed Ford's cell. It rang, and rang, and rang – Mabel hung up. Tried Wendy's number again.

Voicemail.

"Guys," she whined, clutching at her hair. "You can't do that to me!"

Her heart didn't seem to be able to calm; her thoughts tumbled over each other at a mile a minute and she could barely collect herself.

Hearing his voice after so many years…

She shook her head hard. "It's not him!" She knew it wasn't, she knew that, but…

Oh. Oh no.

Her legs collapsed and her butt hit the ground; tears formed in her eyes against her will.

No no no no.

White and red flowers.

That's how they adorned Dipper's funeral. Dozens of them, maybe hundreds; Mabel never knew because she watched the whole thing through tears. It was some solemn tedious ritual where an old preacher who never knew Dipper talked about how great he had been in all these stupid wrong words – he didn't mention anything of the right things about Dipper, just general statements like _healthy_ and _taken too soon._

Not a single consoling word could take away her anger – they all thought she was just sad, but she had been _angry angry angry_.

The casket was empty, of course, because Dipper wasn't dead – Mabel knew he wasn't, and she should know better than anyone.

But she heard her parents at night, strained and full of despair, discussing in lowered tones about how the police hadn't found a body. That Stan had to have hid it. That Stan maybe had done this before. That it's good they got Mabel back in time. Be grateful they lost one, not both.

It made her burn. Stan had only ever had the twins' best interests at heart. And Dipper wasn't dead.

Her parents tried to console her, tried to remind her of all the good times with Dipper. They didn't understand that she didn't need to be reminded.

They didn't understand that every time she looked in a mirror, it wasn't her hair she saw, it wasn't her face, it wasn't her body at all – she only ever saw Dipper.

The first couple of years after… it wasn't good. She called the Mystery Shack, often multiple times a day, to find comfort from Stan and Ford. Although the older Pines' twins already fractured relationship had finally shattered, they strained to keep peace between them during those calls, and both were dedicated to helping Mabel in their own ways.

Mabel's parents tried their hardest to suppress these calls – according to them, Stan was an outright villain, and in court they fought their hardest to put him away. The calls finally ceased when their efforts won, and Stan got locked up in the Gravity Falls jail. Ford retreated further into himself, and the communication line dwindled to almost nothing.

With that, Mabel felt more severed than ever from her brother and from Gravity Falls. The house that she once called home was too empty and silent, always lacking the presence of her twin. Things that once seemed easy suddenly were impossibility difficult – even getting out of bed in the morning felt like a monumental effort. Her interest in school and grades plummeted; even her passion for art weakened. For a while, she became convinced that no matter what she tried to draw or create, it would inevitably remind her of Dipper.

There was pretty big concern she'd have to repeat freshman year of high school; luckily that decision was overturned.

She got into her parent's medicine cabinet once, too, and that led to an E.R. trip that she mostly didn't remember. There was also the period of time where she'd vehemently argue about the fact her brother was in fact a demon and not dead… yikes. That hadn't gone over well, and after a handful of doctors and a several handfuls of pills, Mabel admitted defeat and stopped trying to convince her family of the truth. High school itself wasn't much better off, 'cause it's pretty hard to make friends when you're in and out of a hospital, and all kinds of rumors started at the school.

But college – that was supposed to be her new start.

She was supposed to shed all the rumors and all the darkness, and start life as a _person,_ not a wreck.

Mabel curled up tighter, wiping her tears with the sleeve of her smock.

She didn't expect this.

And she wasn't happy about it, either.

Whoever was in the Shack wasn't her brother, but it was someone pretending to be. And calling for her help. Which firstly, was one huge call for help, and secondly, _not_ okay. Nobody could just 'dress up' as Dipper and call for her help. Nobody.

Mabel exhaled. She lifted her hand, dialed in Wendy's number.

Voicemail.

Mabel said only one thing, "I'm coming back."

* * *

A/N: Initially I was going to focus mostly only on present events. But I think, given the conclusion of the story I have in mind, presenting what happened to everyone in the six years between Resurrection and now is very important.


	4. Hiatus

Hello all,

I regret to say that I'll be putting this story on hiatus. I fully intend to return and write it later, but I don't think I have it all worked out in my head right now, and due to the high volume of multi chapter stories I'm writing, I just can't quite keep up. Therefore rather than having a lot of time in between each update (weeks or months), I'm going to wait until it's all written and then post chapters on a weekly basis. That means until it's all finished, I will not be posting new chapters! (I know, I'm the worst.)

See you on the other side (:


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